


Falling In Love Again, Everyday

by consult_the_potato



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Post-Weirdmageddeon, Problems related to memory loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-29 00:25:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16733496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consult_the_potato/pseuds/consult_the_potato
Summary: Despite Ford’s optimism that it will get better with time, your heart still breaks every time Stan looks at you with confusion behind his amber eyes, or every time he startles at the realization that he has a twin. But, this seems to be the new normal now, as much as it hurts to think he doesn’t remember your late night flirting and his arm snaking oh-so-carefully around your back when you sit “too close”.





	Falling In Love Again, Everyday

You wipe your hands against your jeans, wrinkling your nose at the dusty knickknacks you’ve just had to restock. It wasn’t the busy season anymore; leaves from the trees fell in droves, and the air has begun to have a certain chill to it. 

You don’t mind too much, though. People still occasionally come in the gift shop, and Mr. Mystery somehow convinces suckers to come on tours, even though most of the audience were town locals who couldn’t get enough of seeing the Sascrotch or Goosurkey. Some of the usuals come by often to check up on their local hero, your boss, Stanley Pines.

In the few months you’d been employed, you made friends with the twins, your boss’ brother came through a freaky portal, and the town fell apart and came back together again. You fought beside the townsfolk, pushed yourself to exhaustion, and helped clean up the town in the aftermath of Weirdmaggedon, all between searching for the Pines family—who had, at this point, become your own.

Before he lost his memory, Stan was a damn good boss. He stuck up for you against rowdy customers, showed you the tricks of the trade with his “art”, and you’d even started staying a little later than usual in the weeks leading up to the end of the world. The younger twins didn’t suspect much, but you knew Ford saw through your ‘just-being-sure-everyone-eats’ act. You‘d developed feelings for Stan, and god, you had it bad, and he was either too polite to mention it, or too oblivious to notice. Either way, your empty apartment didn’t offer much to you except a creaky bed and an old comforter, so the Shack made a great home away from home.

But, summer had ended, and things weren’t the same. Sure, the town eventually returned to its usual hustle and bustle, but school was going back into session, so Dipper and Mabel had gone home to Piedmont weeks ago. Even despite the daily Skype calls and Mabel’s hourly texts, the older twins still seemed a little put out.

More than that, though, was the change in Stanley. Ford has explained the after-effects of the memory gun in detail to you, explaining that, although everything came back as quickly as it left, sometimes things would be spotty. Despite Ford’s optimism that it will get better with time, your heart still breaks every time Stan looks at you with confusion behind his amber eyes, or every time he startles at the realization that he has a twin. But, this seems to be the new normal now, as much as it hurts to think he doesn’t remember your late night flirting and his arm snaking oh-so-carefully around your back when you sit “too close”.

The ringing of the gift shop bell startles you out of your memories, and you hurry to finish restocking the cheap fragile snow globes onto their shelf. You grin at the last tour of the night as they bustle in, just a few locals and some college freshmen home for fall break. 

“Remember folks, the cashier-witch won’t curse ya, as long as ya buy something over $20!” Stan shuts the door behind the crowd, shooting you a crooked grin and a wink as he moves his eyepatch from his left to his right. “Right, toots?”

You shake your head with a smirk, sliding back to your familiar place behind the counter. With a smile like that, how could you not fall for him? You chat as you ring up customers, playing along with Stan and giving a dirty look to customers with under $20 worth of junk on your counter. You hear Stan snicker as a customer fumbles to add a keychain to their haul, and you smile again and ring them up, sending the last of the night on their way. 

Stan chuckles now as he flips the ‘OPEN’ sign to ‘CLOSED’, pulling the eyepatch and fez from his head and placing them gingerly on the counter as you start counting cash from the register. 

“Good work tonight, kid… Hey,” he says, and you look up at him with a raised brow, “No funny business, y’hear me? I trust ya.” Stan wags a finger at the money in your hand as he walks towards the house-half of the shack. _Ah, he must remember you today._ You shake your head and roll your eyes with a half-smile, snatching a rubber band from behind the counter to bind the dollars together as you hear Stan in the other room, flipping through channels on the tv. 

You still knock on the door every time you come through to the house-half, just in case, and Stan heaves an exaggerated sigh each time. “Come in already.” You walk through the threshold, his hand already outstretched and waiting for the cash you drop into it. He thumbs through it, decides he’s satisfied, and shoves it into his pocket where he stands. “This another of your ‘force the old man to eat’ nights?” He asks, tilting his head and leaning against the banister of the stairs. 

“If that’s alright?” You say, with almost a question in your voice. Even though he seems to remember you today, you never want to overstep a boundary. He rolls his eyes, but you can still see a fond smile as he undoes the cufflinks on his sleeves. 

“Whatever,” he smirks, jerking his head towards the kitchen door, “You know where everything is.” He turns to leave, and you hear his steps upstairs and his bedroom door close. 

You call up after him, _Guess I’m making whatever I can find,_ and walk onto the linoleum floor of the kitchen. You look through the fridge, humming quietly to yourself. You’re glad you’d forced the men to buy some decent groceries; the fridge looked damn empty before you’d started staying for dinner. You pick up a tray of chicken breasts and some veg to go with before moving to the other side of the counter. You slide out of your sneakers as you wash your hands, socked feet pushing them out of the way before reaching under the counter for a pan.

These evenings worked this way most of the time; him going up to change out of that itchy suit, and you staying below to work on dinner. It was...weird, but nice. Domestic, in a way. You couldn’t deny the fondness you held for Stan Pines, even though he is your boss and at least a decade or so older than you. He really was a kind man, and not a terrible looker for his age. You snicker at the thought; Stan Pines, local silver fox.

He liked to retell stories once your shift was done and when the two of you were sat for dinner. When there were holes in the plot, Ford did his best to help jog the memories back. The stories are a little more jumbled than the first time he told you, but you still liked to listen to his tales. Stupid ones you didn’t believe, scary and illegal ones that you didn’t want to believe, and then some of the more normal, ‘back in my day’ type of stories. He was big in boxing, and a real ladies’ man (you always rolled your eyes at him, but you knew it had to be the truth).

You chop up the veggies and toss them onto the stove, humming as you turn the knob that makes it ignite.

As the food sizzles in its pan, you lose yourself in the otherwise quiet kitchen. You continue to hum to yourself, hips swaying to your own music. You close your eyes, imagining Stan dancing with a smile. In your thoughts he’s giving you a confident grin, his hands low at your hips as he twirls you around. It almost makes you blush with just the thought of it, but you just snicker to yourself, shaking your head as you move your hips.

Your socked feet shuffle-dance against the linoleum floor as you move to snatch something from the fridge. You bend at the waist as you reach into the fridge, hips wiggling as you scan the shelves for the damn ~~worschtersire--worst--werst~~...the sauce Stan likes. 

You startle at a cough behind you, and your hips go still.

“Hey toots,” Stan starts quietly, and you hear him walk to sit at the little table in the kitchen, “Could’ya toss me a Pitt while you’re in there?” 

You slowly stand back up, feeling the blood rush to your cheeks. How long was he standing there?

“Long enough.” He answers, and you whip your head to face him, realizing you had accidentally asked that aloud. “Hope I wasn’t interruptin’ anything, but I don’t feel too bad barging in on you...Y’know, my house an’ all.” Stan shoots you a shit-eating grin, obviously amused by your embarrassment. “Food smells good, though.”

You bite your lip, quickly reaching into the fridge for the dark brown bottle and a can of Pitt, tossing Stan the latter without meeting his eye as you return to the meal. He catches it with a “Woah!” but his amusement is palpable. You can all but see the sleazy smirk on his face.

It’s a quiet few moments as you return to the pan, wiggling it by its handle to shift around the cooking food. You hear him take a long drink of his soda and lean back in his chair, the legs creaking quietly as he lifts them from the floor.

“Could you holler at Ford for me? Looks like dinner will be done soon.” You break the silence, glancing at him over your shoulder. You catch his eye and he clears his throat, apparently catching him staring as he quickly glances away. 

“I tried earlier. He said somethin’ about some sort of breakthrough down in his lab. Not sure he’ll be up tonight.” Stan scratches his gut as he speaks, bringing his soda back to his lips to drain it. 

You watch him finish off the Pitt, eyeing him appreciatively while his attention is diverted. He’s got some muscle under his softness, and you know from experience (he refuses to let you live down the time you fell from a ladder while decorating the shop, right into his arms, mostly on accident). He’s run his hand through his hair a few times to get rid of the hat-hair he tends to keep after long shifts, mussing it _just_ so. He really does look good.

You lose yourself momentarily, and now _he’s_ the one catching _you_ staring. He meets your eye, lowering the can slowly. Stan licks at the remains of his drink at his bottom lip, tongue darting between his teeth. You feel dryness in your mouth, and watch as his tongue laves over his bottom lip once more, slower this time, his eyes curious on yours.

You’re startled back to reality by heat on your hand, realizing your fingers have come slightly too close to the burner. Swearing, you stick the knuckle of your index finger into your mouth, sucking out the heat as you move to turn off the burner and grab a plate. You look down to inspect the burn as you turn around, leaning against the counter for better light. You’re startled at Stan’s figure, moving closer to you. 

“Are ya hurt?” His voice is quiet, his body is close. Stan takes your hand in his own, inspecting the burn before you really get a chance to. His warm, lightly calloused fingers envelop yours, and his amber eyes are focused at your knuckle. You can’t help but stare up at him--surprised, embarrassed, maybe even a little hopeful at his proximity.

You curse yourself for your optimism, but find yourself caught watching his expression. There’s a care behind those brown eyes that you’ve seen from him a few times before, and it makes your stomach flip. It’s the same look you get on his best days -- the days where he laughs the loudest and smiles the biggest.

He’s so close, his chest is against your arm as he turns your wrist over in his hand. “C’mere.” He mumbles, moving you to the sink and turning the knob for cold water, gently pushing your hand beneath the faucet. He gently washes the digit, his thumb running over your fingers gingerly. You lean against him without thinking, and feel his breath hitch in his chest. _Shit, maybe too much._ He grabs a dishtowel from the rack of the oven and you move away from him, letting him dry your hand and release his grip. “That should help.” He turns away, dropping the towel onto the counter. 

“I’ll...Go try and get Ford.” He wipes his hands on his boxers and walks away, stepping through the doorway toward the vending machine. 

You watch him leave, quietly cursing yourself. He barely remembers your name some days; how dare you expect the intimacy you so desire? It’s unfair to him, and it makes your stomach turn to think he might just hate you. Or disregard you. Or...you weren’t sure what you were more worried of.

There’s quiet through the house as you make two plates of food, suddenly unsure if you’d be welcome (or willing, if you were honest) to stay for the meal. Pinpricks of tears form at the edge of your eyes, and you curse yourself as you wipe them away. You shouldn’t be hurt by this, but your optimism is your downfall more often than not. You sniffle quietly and rub your eyes, willing yourself to get it together before the twins come in.

You hear only one set of footsteps come back to the kitchen, soft footfalls returning the way they left.

“Ford’s asleep, believe it or not,” Stan returns with a huff of a laugh, coming through the doorway without looking at you. He turns his back to you, snatching up another can of soda from the fridge before moving to sit at the table once more. “So, looks like it’s just you ‘n me for dinner.”

His tone is even, which makes you more nervous. You clear your throat, hoping your face doesn’t give away your worry. Taking both plates and turning to face Stan, you place one plate in front of him and set the other at your regular place on the table, sliding into your chair quietly.

Utensils clink quietly against your plate as you eat in silence, refusing to look his way as you eat. He’s quiet too, which is slowly making you lose your appetite. Usually he’s chatting, talking about anything and nothing with his mouth full and making you laugh, but it’s so noticeably awkward and quiet, you almost can’t handle it. You chew your next mouthful, tapping your socked toe against the cool linoleum. 

Stan finally groans, putting down his utensils and looking over at you. “Toots, we can’t...pretend this isn’t an issue.” You look at him with raised eyebrows, swallowing your bite and pursing your lips as you meet his eye. He’s looking at you with a warm sort of sadness in his gaze, leaning forward, his arm closer to your hand on the table than you remember it being, like he was reaching for you when you weren’t looking. 

“I know my memory shit is difficult for all of us--trust me, I hate being on the receivin’ end of all the sad looks you ‘n Ford give me.” Despite his words, his lips quirk up. He reaches over and takes your free hand, warm fingers gentle against your skin as he turns your hand in his, thumb brushing tenderly against your skin. 

“But you can’t go pretending it doesn’t hurt you. I know it does, and even on the hard days, I know when you’re hurtin’, babe. I can feel it, and God does it break my heart when I see you trying to hide those watery eyes.” Stan looks so vulnerable, his shoulders heavy and looking almost surprised at his own words as they come from his mouth. You blink back the tears at the edge of your eye and look away before it can fall, catching the bob of his throat out of the corner of your eye.

He takes a breath and exhales it, then clears his throat before he speaks again. “Sweetness,” Stan’s voice is so soft, drawing your eye once more, “We can make this work. It’s hard to live day-to-day like this, but..I dunno, toots, it’s kinda fun to fall in love with you every day.” He huffs a wry laugh as the words leave him and you laugh with him, standing from your seat and moving to sit into his lap.

His arms wrap around you and he holds you close, a hand curling tenderly into your hair and his face buried into your shoulder. As your slip your arms around his neck, you could swear you feel a wetness through your shirt. You save the man his dignity and hold him silently, pressing kiss after kiss to the side of his hair.

Warm palms find your waist, thumbs rubbing gentle circles against the fabric of your shirt. He lifts his head and smiles at you. One of your hands comes up to his cheek, caressing the stubble and smiling at the warmth of his blush beneath your fingertips. As he meets your eye, his gaze holds a timid yearning that makes your breath catch. His face melts into a grin at that, his dimple caving in beneath your palm. Your stomach flutters at the sight of him and you lean closer, ducking your head to plant a kiss at his forehead. One hand leaves your back and lifts to catch your chin, the callouses brushing your skin as he pulls your face closer to his own.

His lips catch yours in one quick motion, their softness enveloping your bottom lip as he releases his hold on your chin. Your eyes close as you feel a blush rising up your cheeks, kissing him back with fervor. He tastes like peach and just slightly like salt, the tip of his tongue grazing over your bottom lip so lightly, sending a shudder down your back. You pull away first, but press two more kisses against his lips for good measure as you sit back against his knees. A laugh escapes your lips as he opens his eyes, and he laughs with you after a second, his blush still pink and bright.

His chest rumbles as he laughs, and you relish in his grin. As the laughter fades away, you catch him eyeing your lips once more, his tongue darting between his own as he begins to lean into you. You can feel his breath against your mouth before you feel him stop, his eyes darting away from you and to something a bit past you, the corners of his lips quirking upward. You cock your head at him, then turn around to see what it is, eyebrows raised.

A sleepy-eyed, blushing Ford stands at the entrance of the kitchen, his hair mussed and clothes disheveled as he looks at you in his brother’s lap. Though he’s blushing, a knowing smirk sits on his lips, and he crosses his arms as he raises his brows at both of you. “Sorry I missed dinner.”


End file.
